Rag & Bone: I like to say it, over and over. I love hearing the words roll from my tongue. Like the rhythm and beat of the name, the edgy fashion label born in lower Manhattan by two dashing Brits is strong and concise. Rag & Bone isn’t pretty, but it is positively sexy. It’s the stylish uniform for city grit and grime that gives a whiff of seduction. I don’t know if it’s the sound of the words “rag” and “bone” or the trench with leather, but something about this brand really turns me on. The best thing about their clothes is that all you need is a bright lip and you’re ready. Fucking ready for anything. Even if it’s just a purposeful coffee on a park bench. Ready.
Rag & Bone designers Marcus Wainwright and David Neville arrived in Toronto just two hours before Holt Renfrew’s third floor became a well-heeled bump and grind session to Ol’ Dirty Bastard. I ate a big fat salty pretzel, then I twirled sticky fluffs of pink cotton candy on my fingers and subtlety gyrated my hips while local artists brushed moody swans on a designated graffiti board.
Like everyone, I wanted the trench with black leather arms. But it’s $1,200. I’ll look at the denim vests and camouflage short-shorts instead.
Rag & Bone. Say it three times and your nipples might get hard.